


my soul cries out (blinded by the thirst of sin)

by starsandsun



Category: ATEEZ (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Angels & Demons, Angst, Anxiety, Blood and Gore, Character Death, Consent is Sexy, Deal with a Devil, Demon Choi San, Depression, Dreams and Nightmares, Eventual Smut, LIKE A LOT OF ANGST, M/M, Major Character Injury, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Pianist Jung Wooyoung, sannie gets a gold star for best boy, trigger warning, wooyoung just needs a hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:27:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26023426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starsandsun/pseuds/starsandsun
Summary: “I will give youeverythingandso much more…” Kisses as soft as starlight down the side of his neck, across his collarbone. Wooyoung turns his head, leaning against the sturdy shoulder, surrendering himself. The white flag has been raised. His eyes flutter shut, barely daring to move. A painstaking hand caressing his cheek. Breaths mingle with his, lips almost on his. Flickering, diminishing, vanishing, dying flame to feed the roaring fire in Wooyoung instead.The last candle blinks out, leaving them in total darkness.“I will make youGod.”(Or, it’s been 3 years since Jung Wooyoung’s life as a concert pianist came to an end, the accident that destroyed his hands ripping away the only thing he ever loved, he ever lived for. But something sinister in his dreams promises him the one thing he’s ever truly wanted.)
Relationships: Choi San & Jung Wooyoung, Choi San/Jung Wooyoung, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 74





	1. Adagio con Dolore

**Author's Note:**

> i've been a classical pianist for my whole life, since i could walk, music being my first language before i could even speak. i've learned countless pieces, performed on several stages, had many teachers, but something always felt like it was missing.
> 
> until last year, when i met a boy whose face i never saw. he asked me to play, kept asking me to play every time we spoke. he grew to adore what i performed, each time was a request for the same piece. a piece that is very dear to me because of this boy who appreciated the time i dedicated to learning and perfecting my pieces, who taught me to treasure my music as much as he did, who helped me see the beauty in my skill as not a burden but as something to be admired and celebrated. this piece i played for him as he cried, as we grew so close, as we drifted far apart.
> 
> i think about him a lot, about the piece and the person that changed my perspective as a pianist. he never said he loved me, but i like to think that he did. because when someone loves your art, they love you. maybe i'll see him again one day.
> 
> thank you to all of the people who beta-read this for me, and a big big thank you to my best friend who constantly deals with my random 2am ideas, ever-changing drafts, and rants about how choi san is the sweetest boy ever. i hope you all enjoy reading this as much as i enjoyed writing it!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adagio con Dolore (Slowly with Sadness)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for:
> 
> \- graphic/violent imagery (including descriptions of blood and injury)  
> \- character death  
> \- depression  
> \- anxiety/panic attacks
> 
> please do not read this if you are sensitive to such topics.
> 
> READ MY TAGS AND TWs PLEASE!! it is the responsibility of an author to be considerate of their audience, and by tagging a certain way i am doing my duty. if you do not read the tags and get upset with me, that's on YOU as a reader, and it's no longer my problem.
> 
> ok, rant over. have fun reading!

**3 Years Ago**

_Wooyoung._

It calls for him. He’s falling down, down, down, hand outstretched, reaching up to the heavens for something, anything to grasp onto him and save him. But there is nothing. The gates of paradise are locked to him. The air like claws rips his lungs apart and frost coats the inside of his throat, leaving him pathetically struggling to breathe. The lack of oxygen makes his vision tunnel, an ominous vignette transforming the blue from which he’s plummeting helplessly from seem further and further away. And it is. So begins his descent beneath the sky.

His back burns, the inky shadows searing into his bones. Daggers seem to tear into his bloodstream and peel his skin away from the inside. Everything hurts, millions of needles inching themselves into his soul. Flashes before his eyes. Crying out until his throat is raw, anguish falling upon deaf ears. Agony.

_What did he do to deserve such pain?_

He’s pulled downward, hands wrapping around his chest and wrists and dragging him into the void below. Blackness swallows him and he tries to protest but his voice is nonexistent. It never was. He’s lying on his back, surrounded by the dark that kisses every inch of him. There is nothing in the darkness. Nothing that he can see. 

Suddenly above him there is a body. A figure. A figure that holds him tightly and tilts them upward so they’re standing. The arms that encircle him are clothed and then he remembers that he is so very naked, so exposed. So vulnerable. Soft fabric against bare skin.

_This is his savior._

He feels like a child clinging to its mother, head resting on a firm shoulder that feels so solid, so real. So safe. He takes a shaky breath, eyes still shut. Hands like clouds rub through wild strands of his hair, comforting circles on his back, soothe his tender wounds with a cool touch.

_This is his savior._

He pulls back to peer up at the being who holds him, heart instantly stuttering. There is no face. Only dark eyes, tired eyes, beautiful eyes, staring back at him. Somehow this feels even more intimate because the eyes _know_ him. They know his secrets and they seem to silently vow to carry them, absorbed into the glistening pools of despair that glitter with faraway supernovas and brilliant nebulas. He knows those eyes well. He’s lost in those eyes, like the stars waiting to be explored yet forgotten in the depths of the vast universe.

_This is his savior._

A pale hand leaves his back, the other one still holding him in a gentle embrace, and comes up to stroke his jaw delicately. Like a lover. A touch made of embers and butterfly wings and silk sheets.

And then it’s too fast for him to react. The other hand around him strikes like a serpent, crushing through flesh and bone to clench around his heart and tear it out. Warmth cascades down his back in rivulets. The horror dawns on him; he opens his mouth to scream but nothing comes out. The eyes don’t change. They remain like ice: remorseless. His body stiffens and then goes limp, sinking to the floor, still in the arms of his betrayer. His killer.

_No._

His vision fades.

_Is this his savior?_

The eyes fade.

 _Wooyoung!_ Is that his name?

“Wooyoung!”

Jung Wooyoung’s eyes open and he shoots awake with a shout, sitting up and clutching the blankets that tangle his legs and stick to his skin with cold sweat. _(Eyes.)_ He doesn’t recognize the room he’s in as his gaze searches frantically for something familiar.

“Wooyoung?” He turns his head and on the bed is a person swaddled in the light that skulks in from the dull glow of the city sunset outside the window. Yeosang. “Are you alright?” Sometimes Wooyoung thinks Yeosang is an angel. The dusk bathes him in a halo that makes his skin shine milky pale gold, contrasting with his dark hair and strong eyebrows. His eyes are wide with worry. _(Eyes.)_

Wooyoung coughs and swallows dryly, running a hand through his damp and matted hair. “Yeah, I’m okay,” he utters weakly. But he is not okay; he is shaken. His heart still throbs in his chest _(in his chest)_ and his hand lingers over it, reassured by the steady _thump thump thump_ that resonates in his ears.

Yeosang’s brow knits with concern, chocolate voice apprehensive, “You had the nightmare again.” Wooyoung nods slowly, looking down at his hands guiltily. Attached at the hip ever since they were born, Yeosang knows Wooyoung like no other, so Yeosang knows his nightmares as well. But Wooyoung is the only one to endure them. Yeosang never asks about details, but Wooyoung knows that he is a pillar to support him.

Wooyoung doesn’t even remember when they met, just that Kang Yeosang had been by his side for so long that they were always inseparable. Yeosang’s parents weren’t there for Yeosang, and Wooyoung’s parents weren’t there for Wooyoung, so they were drawn together naturally, finding solace in each other’s presence. They shared everything imaginable: from toys to clothes to secrets. And when Wooyoung had nowhere else to go, Yeosang was the one he ran to, the one who took him under his wing and told him that it was going to be alright. They lived together, ate together, studied together, stayed up late together. They were partners in crime and Wooyoung always remarked that Yeosang was his guardian angel.

“What time is it?” Wooyoung blinks, rubbing his eyes. _(Eyes.)_

Yeosang shifts to read the clock at Wooyoung’s bedside. “Almost time for us to go.”

Tonight. Wooyoung’s heart _(in his chest)_ picks up its pace erratically once again. A spike of fear drives itself into his stomach that just about capsizes with the weight of a million stones and makes him want to dissolve into the mattress. He gulps, hands and breaths starting to shake. They’re steadied by Yeosang, who takes them into his own. “Hey. Look at me.” Wooyoung reluctantly glances up to see kind eyes _(eyes)_ and a serene smile.

“You’re gonna do amazingly. I know it.” _Yeosang is an angel._ Wooyoung tries to smile back but he’s sure it ends up coming out more like a grimace. “Now let’s get you ready.”

Light disappears from the horizon and Wooyoung has been wrestled into a black suit that makes his legs look long and his waist look trim. Yeosang has successfully managed to twist an elegant black choker around his neck with a silver charm that hangs down, highlighting his collarbones. Soon Wooyoung’s skin turns luminescent, eyes accentuated by dark smudges around them that make his stare infinitely sharper, lips tinted with rouge as Yeosang works his magic. Wooyoung zones out the whole time, thoughts riddled with nerves and stuck in an endless loop of his nightmare that makes his hands sweat and his skin prickle.

When he gets a good look at his best friend once again, he sees that they are dressed identically, but Yeosang has foregone the black choker and instead kept his special necklace slightly visible underneath his own collar. (When they were children, Wooyoung had asked Yeosang what his pendant meant, but all he got was a frown and a “Protection” with no further elaboration so he decided to never bring it up again because adolescent Wooyoung never liked when Yeosang didn’t smile.)

“Done,” Yeosang murmurs softly then, giving Wooyoung’s silver hair a final tousle. They walk over to the body length mirror near the door. Wooyoung doesn’t recognize himself.

"Woah," Wooyoung whispers. He looks older, more mature, the soft lines of his cheeks have somehow disappeared and the soft lines of his body are disguised by taut and angular fabric. He tugs on the neck of his stiff collar and Yeosang hisses playfully, batting his hand away.

Their eyes meet in the mirror. Yeosang himself is a sight to be marveled, dark mahogany swirling around his forehead. His eyes _(eyes)_ seem to be more piercing than usual. He smiles, affection bouncing in his eyes. “The car's waiting outside. Ready to leave?”

Wooyoung nods. Yeosang grabs their phones and his briefcase off the chest of drawers and they head down the hallway. After all he had seen and done, Wooyoung could never quite get used to the glamorous hotels or the plush carpets or the grand chandeliers hanging from ceilings. But there was always a constant. His rock, his lighthouse: Yeosang.

Wooyoung clambers into the shiny black SUV after Yeosang, taking care to make himself as small as possible. He feels very tiny against the dark interior, dwarfed by anxiety and the weight of the situation. Of what was about to happen. Yeosang seems to sense his distress and pats his arm in a steady rhythm to soothe his racing mind, stuck on the nightmare.

The nightmare. _Eyes. Heart. Wooyoung._

Wooyoung’s fingers twitch. He looks out the window at the skyscrapers that tower above him, shining lights like beacons that flash red and white. A background of brilliant murky pink and orange. He thinks the city would be beautiful if he wasn’t so preoccupied.

The trip seems to pass in an instant and suddenly Yeosang and Wooyoung are being ushered into a lavish waiting room through the back door of a shadowy building. Rich blue paint, Napa leather chairs, and _oh dear_ , is that a Monet over there? Wooyoung swallows, his mouth dry. He hesitantly settles onto a seat, Yeosang taking the place across from him and pulling out his computer.

“What’s that?” Wooyoung juts his chin towards the device nestled on Yeosang’s lap.

Yeosang peeks up at Wooyoung from behind his screen and waves a hand dismissively. “Just a project. I’m almost done.”

Wooyoung feels a pang of guilt for tearing his best friend away from his life and burdening him with Wooyoung’s own. No matter how much Yeosang assured him it was okay. They both were in university, but where Wooyoung’s classes and coursework were accommodating to his chaotic schedule, Yeosang’s were not. Yeosang had taken it upon himself to manage Wooyoung’s professional life. He was a lifesaver; where Wooyoung lacked extroversion and people skills, Yeosang’s natural charm and ability to converse took over. Wooyoung had no idea how he did it, juggling the load of a full time student and Wooyoung’s babysitter, but he was extremely grateful nonetheless.

Yeosang speaks again, “I know what you’re thinking. Stop worrying about me. I’m serious.” Wooyoung rolls his eyes and goes back to finding the floor interesting.

His heart resorts to hammering against his ribcage, adrenaline rushing through his veins. He should be used to this by now, but the nerves before every performance always seem to have the same effect on him no matter how he tries to calm himself. He bounces his knee nervously, clenching his fists tightly to his stomach to disguise the trembles. His face burns. He can hear the pianist before him still pummeling the poor keys, the chords of a temperamental Rachmaninoff prelude managing to assault his ears even through the thick walls. A drip of sweat makes it way down the back of Wooyoung’s neck, sinking into his collar that’s somehow even tighter than before. The temperature in the room feels way too high. Wooyoung’s throat is still a desert, the absence of saliva making his tongue itch.

He must look absolutely dreadful because Yeosang’s rich husky voice interrupts him. “Wooyoung. Relax. You’ve done this thousands of times before and this is not any different.”

“Sorry,” Wooyoung manages to grunt out, wringing his hands again. He shrugs his shoulders, trying to adjust his stiff suit jacket that constricts his movement. His knee bounces even faster. He can feel the dull thud of blood roaring through his ears in the back of his head.

Yeosang responds gently, “You’ve made it this far in the rounds. Be proud of that.” Wooyoung nods, lost in thought, Yeosang’s furious typing doing nothing to soothe his apprehension.

Wooyoung lets his mind drift to the task at hand. The rounds. He was the youngest competitor, passing several evaluations, remaining one of the few of hundreds chosen to perform in front of thousands.

Music was Wooyoung’s first and only love. His parents were in the ground, father succumbing to cancer and mother to depression. Wooyoung had been too young to understand at the time. The pain he carried was subdued, more disappointed at the lack of parental figures in his life than angry at ghosts. All of it fell away when he had found music, the keys becoming a light, his North Star in his dark tunnel.

Wooyoung’s entire life revolved around the piano, competitions, awards, studying theory to master technique, touch, dynamic. Critics praised him for having perfect interpretation, perfect performances, perfect facial expressions, and teachers at acclaimed music schools around the world vied to have him as their student. He had traveled from his home to several countries to tour and make appearances at various events. It was surreal, thousands of faces in the crowds blurring together all to solidify into a single cheer of his name. Interviews and airtime on radios and television, asking him what it was like to perform, what it was like to be one of the most famous of his art in the world. All he could do was smile and just say he was a boy who had found his passion, who had fixed himself onto his instrument with no intentions of letting go, lucky when so many others struggled to find a path but his was known all along.

Wooyoung’s ability came from thousands of hours of practice, but there was also something he couldn’t quite put his finger on, something in his very being that urged him to discover melodies and be a voice once again for the composers that had been dead hundreds of years. A natural inclination to move his hands across keys in magnificent formations to bring any who listened on a rollercoaster of emotions ranging from joy to utter despair. A natural inclination to memorize millions of measures and regurgitate it all perfectly, a whole library of sound tucked away safely in his mind's ear and eye.

And yet, something felt missing.

Maybe it was that he didn't have the best memory of his own personal life, his childhood. More just blurs in a black and white movie with no sound. Flashes of light and nightmares filled with pain that felt too real to be solely imagined. Broken faces with no names and broken names with no faces.

The faint echo of applause disrupts the near-silence. Yeosang’s head snaps up and a twinkle in his eyes just makes Wooyoung’s stomach drop even more. Yeosang delicately places his assignment aside and stands, offering Wooyoung a hand, who takes it and lurches to his own feet with a squeak, scrambling for balance. Yeosang just chuckles and turns to the hallway that leads to Wooyoung’s immediate future. Wooyoung hurries after him, wiping his sweaty palms on his dress pants. His socks slide around uncomfortably in his shoes, doing nothing to resolve the whirling mess in his brain.

They get to the edge of the stage, and the performer before Wooyoung gives him a respectful bow and a wink before pushing past him back into the waiting room. Wooyoung is too flustered with trepidation to even say some semblance of a greeting. He’s too focused on the blood rushing everywhere but his face. It’s a good thing Yeosang knew how to do makeup, otherwise Wooyoung would either have too much color from furious blushing, or none at all from fright. His best friend engulfs him in a warm hug, patting Wooyoung on the back with a “You got this!” before shoving him forwards.

As soon as Wooyoung steps out into view, the audience bursts out into another round of applause. The lights are bright, so bright. He resists the urge to squint as he hears the clicks of camera shutters and flashes of brilliant white scatter across his vision. He takes a deep breath, steeling his nerves and gaining his composure, swiveling his head to marvel at the full house before him. His eyes _(eyes)_ sweep the front rows of the spectators, hundreds of eyes _(eyes)_ fixed on him, attentive. They had come here for him after all. This night was for him, for his skill, for the world to stare in wonder and awe.

He strides over to the Steinway Concert Grand placed in the center of the stage. Wooyoung flashes the concert hall a brilliant smile and a tentative wave before bowing deeply, heart pounding with what has transformed into excitement in his chest _(in his chest)_. He sits, the acclamation gradually subsiding as he adjusts the height of the bench and checks the pedals. His hands stop shaking. He closes his eyes _(eyes)_.

(Mood: [ Ballade in G Minor](https://youtu.be/JW2W3bnAGiA?t=434) by Frederic Chopin)

Wooyoung’s fingers elegantly grace over the first octaves with the elegance of snowflakes floating in a winter breeze and the world falls away.

In this moment, it is only him and his instrument, him and his music. Nothing else exists in this moment.

He was made for this. This is where he belongs.

The piece Wooyoung chose was a ballade, and a beautiful one at that. One of yearning, heartbreak, and gloom with just a sliver of hope. He had practiced it for so long that at this point he heard it in his dreams, could play it in his sleep, knew every measure through and through. It was so lonely, filled with love and hatred, rolling waves of happiness and desperation, like waiting for a lover that would never return to your arms, memories set alight and tossed into the fire to burn.

Wooyoung lets music color his life where people can’t. Nobody can scratch the surface of what truly makes him. He is a poet of keys and reflections of humanity in its most vulnerable state, raw emotion turned into sound, twisted from bitter, emerging from the cocoon to be dressed up in satin and painted on smiles.

Wooyoung’s hands bounce back and forth with the precision of the thinnest blade, fixed in their reverie. The ballade is the embodiment of surviving, not living, pitiful anger, resentment, longing. A tear slips out of Wooyoung’s eye as he feels the phantoms of pain stab at his chest, ripping him open and letting his raw passion spill onto the floor in all its glory for his spectators to see. This is Wooyoung laid bare, at the height of ecstasy. Just a boy and his piano, learning how to portray his sadness so that someone could learn to understand how he feels.

A smile fights its way onto Wooyoung’s lips as the major fights the minor. It is nighttime, but the glitter of delight takes its place in the black and white, making Wooyoung feel enveloped in maybe a winter sunshine. A bit cold, but present nonetheless. His hand surfs octaves. It’s like a carefree yellow, he thinks. A balloon floating away in the brisk air, lost amongst the clouds. He is lost amongst the clouds. He is lost.

With the grief of a child who has lost his balloon, the end spirals up and down the keyboard in furious chromatic scales, _crescendo,_ _decrescendo_. Wooyoung’s heart beats as one with the uneven tempo of the winter storm that has rolled into the hall. The sharp dance of lightning on the right hand, the subsequent deep cracks of thunder on the left. A deadly pirouette that has no rhyme, no reason. There is only sound, only _forte_. The swells and crests of waves, a ship overturned in the tempest, _pianissimo_.

Hands straining to meet each other, lovers slipping out of each other’s grasp. The final chord pressed down with a grim acceptance of the grim fate after a macabre jumble of leaps and bounds. Wooyoung’s panting ever so slightly, lifting his hands off of the piano.

He opens his eyes. _(Eyes.)_

The silence is broken by applause. The world is broken.

The hall erupts into a deafening exclamation of cheers. Wooyoung is dazed, head feeling light from the exertion and the rapture of the overwhelming response he received as he comes back down to earth. His hands ache, but the pain reminds him that he just created something beautiful. Wooyoung staggers to his feet, breathless, with a tired smile and another bow. He exits the stage with the audience still roaring their appreciation, stumbling right into Yeosang’s arms. The fleeting thought of _His angel_ crosses his mind but disappears in an instant.

Yeosang whispers something in Wooyoung’s ear that he doesn’t quite catch because he’s too dizzy from exhaustion. He just hangs on to his best friend, who shepherds him back to the waiting room. Wooyoung is greeted by the other performers, who have culminated in the space, giving him their congratulations. Someone hands him a bouquet of flowers, the sweet, addictive aroma intoxicating him even further. Wooyoung can’t stop beaming. Everything seems too bright, too blurry, too dreamlike. The only thing that grounds him is Yeosang’s constant presence at his side, the familiar cologne a comforting reminder of familiarity in the foreign place, in the foreign country. The pianists and their managers are ushered by some director somewhere back out onto the stage, where they all take a group bow and pose for some more pictures. Wooyoung’s still high off of his performance, barely able to form a coherent sentence, Yeosang attached to his side.

An unknown amount of time passes. It could have been seconds, minutes, hours, all the same to Wooyoung. Shaking hands, looking pretty for the cameras, addressing other competitors. It’s declared that the judges have their results. Yeosang’s hand on Wooyoung’s waist tightens protectively as all eyes are on an announcer. Wooyoung’s hand tightens on his flowers. The eliminations are rattled off, but Wooyoung doesn’t quite catch the names. He looks at Yeosang for help, but the other is too focused, listening for the only name he cares about.

“Finalist Jung Wooyoung!” The proclamation rings out, and Yeosang’s head whips around to look at Wooyoung, the proudest expression on his face, a dazzling smile.

Wooyoung is startled. “I made it?” he mouths. An enthusiastic nod in response. Wooyoung’s heart soars. He made it. He’ll advance to the final round.

Wooyoung doesn’t remember what happens between the venue and the car ride. All he knows is that one second Yeosang is telling him that he’s proud of Wooyoung in the backseat, face illuminated by the glow of the ambient lighting on the way back to their hotel, and the next the air is permeated with Yeosang’s frantic scream.

A skid of tires.

A crunch of metal.

A scream of a bystander.

A squall of sirens.

A fire, burning Wooyoung’s body, clawing its way into his brain. _It hurts, it hurts, it hurts it hurts ithurtsithurtsithurts._ He can’t move, he can’t breathe. He can hear the muffled sound of someone calling his name, but he can’t open his eyes _(eyes)_. His body won’t listen to him. He’s stuck with an endless coda.

“Check his vitals!”

“Is he breathing?”

“We need to get him to the hospital!”

Is that Yeosang calling him?

Wooyoung feels himself being vaguely lifted onto something soft. A stretcher. The gentle rock of the ambulance as he’s sped to the emergency room. His head feels like it’s stuffed with cotton and weighs one million pounds. He wants to turn, to tell Yeosang it’ll be okay, that he’s sorry for making him take time off from the semester. He can see lights behind his eyelids, shadows moving. He can’t feel his hands.

His hands.

The shock in itself of his hands, his piano, his performance. His life. He made it to the final round. A surge of panic makes Wooyoung’s eyes tear open and his lungs beg for air. He shouts, hands press him down, his head lolling wildly. He whimpers. Everything is spinning. He can make out the vague silhouette of a halo of dark hair. Yeosang? “Y-“ he tries to say, but his tongue is too big for his mouth. He is shushed in reply, hand stroking his hair gently. “M-my—“ His head feels like it’s about to split open.

He can see the halo lean down closer to where he’s lying. He thinks he can hear his name.

“My hands,” he says. Or tries to say. His eyes roll back in his head, and the black claims him before anything else can seep into his senses.

Wooyoung wakes up in the urgent care ward, eyes swollen from drug-induced sleep and throat parched from being tube-fed for what the nurse softly tells him was the past two weeks. Traumatic brain injury, internal hemorrhaging, stitches in various places. Hours of surgery, trying to save his nerves and his limbs.

Wooyoung screams in horror when he looks at his hands swaddled in bandages, the howl of a defeated warrior when he sees the X-rays, the mess of pins and metal plates that went where tendons and bones used to be. His attending doctor and a nurse rush into his room with alarm to see a devastated Wooyoung, sobbing with revulsion at what he had been made into. Ugly. He cries and cries and cries, cries day and night, cries so much his tears are tinged pink with blood from the irritation of the salt. He asks for Yeosang, begs for Yeosang, but all he gets are shakes of heads and whispered condolences. _Yeosang is gone_.

Wooyoung shatters. He asks for a body, begs for a body, to see his angel one last time to say goodbye, to say sorry. All he gets are dazed stares. _Yeosang is gone._

Even when the tears dry up, his shoulders don’t stop shaking. He shakes when his doctor tells him they did the best they could, there is nothing more that can be done, that he’ll never be able to use his hands properly again. He shakes when his bandages are unwrapped to reveal the ugly patchwork skin, pink where his cells had just repaired themselves, but evidently not enough. He shakes when he is told the nerve damage is so severe he will never have the same sensations in his hands ever again, when he is told no amount of physical therapy will ever get him back to where he once was to a functioning human being.

He will never be able to play again.

He will never be able to love again.

When his tears stop coming, when his body stops trembling, his hands do not. He does not sleep, he does not eat.

A nurse comes in every so often to check on him. She tries to offer him words of encouragement, but they are lost on Wooyoung. “At least you are alive,” she meekly tries.

Wooyoung just stares blankly ahead, the constant beep of the machines around him feeling more alive to Wooyoung than he does, than he ever will. _Yeosang is gone_.

“I’d rather be dead.”

Wooyoung is silent when he’s wheeled out of the hospital a month later, when the plane takes off from the airport to take him home. He’s silent when he opens the door to an empty apartment _(Yeosang is gone)_ , fumbling with the keys because his hands hurt and shake and refuse to obey. He’s silent when his piano teacher sighs disappointedly and says goodbye for the last time, when people on the street ogle at his ugly scars so he shoves his hands into his pockets. He’s silent when he’s notified that he’s been given an honorable mention at the competition that was stolen from him by fate. He’s silent when he sits at a piano bench, attempting to press down lightly to make a pretty sound, any sound, but all that comes out is a dull diminished chord that’s shaky and uneven. Ugly. He wants them to be still, but he cannot control his hands, almost no feeling below the wrists.

His nightmares stop. His dreams stop. And even he cannot imagine the sounds that used to pour from his fingertips in the most delicious concoctions anymore. The tones are wrong, the notes are fumbled, the melodies are broken. He is broken, a toy tossed aside to be discarded to the landfill tomorrow.

He drops out of school and makes the decision to move, to get as far away as possible from the person he once was, to leave his previous existence behind. To get as far away from music as possible. There is nothing left for him in this life.

It is remarkably easy to disappear. He buys a tiny studio apartment in the city, hoping that the bustle and multitude of people is enough to bury the corpse of his former identity. He hides his hands with gloves, anything that’ll distract from the ugly lines and quivering fingers not from adrenaline or anxiety, but from fried nerves. Souvenirs of an accident that should’ve never happened.

He changes his phone number, he dyes his hair, he loses weight. Wooyoung disappears into the background, white noise, the headlines of the freak accident and the classical world left reeling at the virtuoso gone missing fading into the past. Who he was is not important anymore. He will never reach that again. He forces himself to repress everything of his old life, not allowing himself to dwell on his pain. Years pass in the blink of an eye.

During the day, he works a job that’s enough to make rent, refusing to tap into the savings of his former life.

During the night, he can only wish.

**Present Day**

“Wooyoung!”

Wooyoung flinches as he loses his grip, the container that was thankfully not yet full of scalding coffee clattering to the floor unceremoniously. He swoops down to pick it up, placing it carefully back on the counter with wobbly fingers. He needs to be more careful. He turns around to look at the one who called him. “What is it?”

"Do we have any more almond milk left?" the voice comes again, muffled by the curtain that separates the counter from the storage room. “I’m going to order some supplies but I can’t see on the top shelf because someone moved the damn stool again.” Wooyoung sighs internally. Of course that’s what he’d be needed for.

“We have enough for next week, but after that I don’t think so. You should get more,” Wooyoung replies over his shoulder, going back to refill a canister. “And the stool is in the closet. I saw Jongho put it there yesterday.”

Wooyoung hears a muted “Bastard” emanate from the storage room. Seeing that there is nobody in line, he goes to help his boss take inventory.

Kim Hongjoong was like summer sunshine. A benevolent and pleasant man, he had accepted a broken Wooyoung three years ago with open arms, offering the boy with the gloves that looked like he hadn’t slept his whole life a stable job at his café and somebody to rely on. Hongjoong didn’t pry about his past, and Wooyoung was thankful for that. He really appreciated how Hongjoong treated him like a person, never looking at his covered skin with disgust or morbid curiosity. Wooyoung liked working for Hongjoong, so much that he worked all day every weekday, anything to keep his mind off of things. The other enjoyed his company, the two often sharing meals and watching movies together at Hongjoong’s apartment.

Hongjoong’s hair is presently a brilliant strawberry color, so he sticks out like a sore thumb amongst the stacks of brown cardboard in the back room of the café. “Do you need help?” Wooyoung pipes up, shoving his hands into his pockets.

Hongjoong is currently scribbling something on his palm with a marker, eyes squinted in determination. Wooyoung wrinkles his nose. For someone so talented at running a popular business, Hongjoong was actually somewhat of a bumbling, clumsy creature. He was always absent-minded, bumping into things and tripping over his shoes, over the floor, over nothing.

Hongjoong looks up and grins amiably. “Oh, no, no, it’s okay. I just finished.” With that he drops the marker he’s holding and simultaneously loses his balance on the stool, glasses also managing to slide off of his pointy nose in the process. Wooyoung winces and wonders how his boss is still alive.

When Hongjoong regains his balance, he wipes his hands on his apron before muttering a “Fuck!” and staring at his now-smudged list on his palm. His glasses are crooked. Hongjoong sighs, “You can go back out there, Wooyoung. I’m fine.” Wooyoung nods wordlessly and steps back out, greeted by a single customer in front of the register, leaning on the counter with his back to Wooyoung. Wooyoung mumbles an apology, and the stranger turns around.

Wooyoung forces himself to keep a straight face.

The tall man before him is breathtakingly gorgeous, silky black hair falling perfectly on his forehead. He’s wearing all black except for a long pinstripe coat, hands and neck and wrists and ears decorated with silver chains and sparkling jewelry. His eyes are sharp, a piercing, unnatural grey, a platinum torrent seemingly alive in the iris. Something about this man is severely unnerving and Wooyoung feels exposed, like he is prey fleeing from a predator.

Wooyoung resists the urge to run and instead clears his throat, hands clutching onto the counter to stop them from trembling not just from destroyed nerves but from fright.

“How can I help you, sir?” Damn his voice for wavering.

The stranger chuckles quietly. His perfect teeth are blindingly white. “Oh, I am not here for anything. I decided I would pay a visit to our new neighbors.” His voice is low and smokey, like a soft lullaby pacifying a child. But it is laced with an edge, something more deadly.

Wooyoung frowns in confusion. “I’m sorry?”

The man tilts his head, ashy eyes steadily fixed on Wooyoung’s, unmoving. He gestures out to across the street, where there seems to be a bustle of trucks unloading boxes onto the sidewalk. “My associates and I just moved into that unit. It will be our new music shop. Instruments and sheet music for classical musicians.”

 _Music shop_. Wooyoung gulps, feet cemented to the floor and face on fire. His skin prickles. “O-Oh. Congratulations,” he tries to say. It comes out sounding more like a question.

"Oh, dear me," the man chortles. “Where are my manners? My name is Seonghwa.” Wooyoung notices the man’s, _Seonghwa’s_ , eyes flit down to Wooyoung’s gloved hands on the counter.

Hongjoong’s voice comes from the storage room again. “Wooyoung?”

Wooyoung has never been more glad for an interruption. “Excuse me,” he tells _Seonghwa_ hurriedly.

“Woo-” Hongjoong emerges from the back and immediately freezes, eyes fixed to the spot past Wooyoung. His expression goes from untroubled to angry in a split second, lips curling up into a snarl. His eyes have gone fiery, face contorted with rage. A knot of fear twists itself into Wooyoung. He has never seen Hongjoong quite like this, even the occasional customer complaint never able to irk him much. “ _You_ ,” Hongjoong all but growls at Seonghwa, storming around the counter to stand face to face with the man. “What are you doing here?”

Seonghwa is unfazed at the hostility directed towards him. He even has the audacity to smile wider, looking down at Hongjoong with mirth frolicing in his eyes. “I was simply saying hello because we will be seeing one another a lot more often, little Hongjoong.” Wooyoung has never been more confused in his life. Who is Seonghwa? How does he know Hongjoong? How does Hongjoong seem to know him? Why is Hongjoong so mad at him?

Hongjoong narrows his eyes, hissing, “And why’s that?”

“As I was telling your dear employee here, I am opening a music store across the way. I do sincerely hope you both find the time to visit us.” Seonghwa adds a playful wink at the end of his sentence, directed towards Wooyoung, who flushes an unholy shade of red and hopes his face doesn’t look too much like a fire hydrant. Seonghwa’s eyes are stunning, transfixing.

“Is this your idea of a sick joke? He will not!” Hongjoong retorts indignantly, fuming like never before. “Get out of my café. You aren’t welcome here!” Hongjoong literally pushes Seonghwa towards the door with a huff. People are starting to stare at them. When he is out the door, he turns over his shoulder to look at Wooyoung through the window, a wicked smirk dancing on his lips.

Wooyoung looks back at Hongjoong, who is breathing shakily, cheeks still blushed with fury. Hongjoong meets his eyes, the fire having cooled to embers that still simmer with wrath and something Wooyoung can’t quite name. “Wooyoung,” he starts, voice a bit weak. “Let’s close up for the day.”

A few hours and a good meal eaten in silence later in Hongjoong’s kitchen, Wooyoung decides to bite the bullet. “What was that?” he questions quietly.

Hongjoong sighs deeply and diligently observes the table, putting down his utensils and finding the ends of the takeout bag to play with. This is the most grim Wooyoung has ever seen him. “Seonghwa...” He pauses, searching for the words to say. “We...used to know each other.”

Wooyoung is puzzled. “From?”

“We used to...work together. If that makes sense.” His words are breathy and rushed, like he’s nervous. “Before I met you.”

“I-I don’t understand,” Wooyoung stammers. Hongjoong is only one year older than he.

“What we used to do.” Is Hongjoong hiding something? “We made promises to do our respective...jobs and let _nothing_ get in our way but, it failed. We failed. I failed.” His voice breaks a little and he runs his hands through his vermillion hair exasperatedly. “I didn’t do what I swore to do and neither did he. I took responsibility for my mistake and I’m still paying for it. I’ll pay for it for the rest of my life, I guess.”

Did Hongjoong get fired? Wooyoung shifts in his seat uncomfortably. “And what about him?”

“He didn’t fucking care. He laughed in my face and said he didn’t regret what he did. Him showing up today is more proof that he doesn’t give a shit about anyone, not even the ones he hurt. He only cares about himself! All he does is make my life more difficult.” Hongjoong looks up from the several knots he tied in the plastic with desperate eyes. “Wooyoung. I don’t know much about you because you don’t talk.” Wooyoung instantly feels a twinge of remorse when the other looks at Wooyoung’s clothed hands clenched together on the table to keep them from twitching. He never had the courage to tell anyone about his accident. “And that’s okay. But I do know you’re dedicated and hard-working as hell. You’ve helped me out more than I ever could’ve asked, and you make good decisions. Now please listen to me. Seonghwa’s unpredictable. And I want you to stay away from him. I _beg_ you to stay away from him. Don’t speak to him. Don’t listen to him. Whatever he says, whatever he promises. It’s not worth the pain he’ll cause. Do you understand?”

Wooyoung nods slowly.

Hongjoong continues, “And if he ever says or does anything to you, you need to tell me so I can handle it. Him or _anyone_ close to him. They’re very dangerous people. I don’t want you getting hurt.” What could possibly hurt Wooyoung? There was nothing that could hurt him. He blinks hard to dispel the thoughts that threaten to follow.

The radiant smile takes its rightful place back on Hongjoong’s face. Wooyoung releases the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Hongjoong claps his hands excitedly. “Now, _Infinity War_ or _Endgame_ tonight?”

Wooyoung gets back to his apartment in the late evening, freezing in front of the door, hair on the back of his neck raised. Something isn’t right. The feeble hall light flickers, making him jump. He twists the key in the lock, shoving the door open roughly.

Something clatters. Footsteps. Wooyoung stands stock still.

“H-Hello?” he calls, words quivering with uneasiness. No answer. There’s a prickle in the back of his spine.

Wooyoung turns the lights on, illuminating his whole space. No intruders. He is the only one. Everything is white and bare minimum, close to no evidence of anyone living there. Walls empty, bed simple and made, clothes put away in the closet. Everything clean and neat.

Wooyoung exhales. He is safe. He kicks off his shoes with relief in the entryway and takes off his gloves. He winces at the sight of the irate raised lines marring the otherwise pale skin, still not used to the sight even after all this time. He undresses and showers, messily sloshing soap everywhere because he immediately remembers the events of the past day.

 _Seonghwa. I beg you to stay away from him._ Seonghwa’s eyes, spiraling and hard like titanium. They must be contacts. No person would have that color naturally.

 _Eyes._ Almost like... _No_. Wooyoung would not allow himself to think of that time.

Wooyoung towels off his hair and gets a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He is almost unrecognizable nowadays, even to himself. Lackluster skin, cheeks hollow, eyes more dull, more tired. Ribs and collarbones straining against his too-tight skin. Black hair that’s getting too long and hangs down to cover his eyes. He looks awful, like he is a walking cadaver.

Wooyoung changes into a pair of soft pants and an oversize shirt, sighing with contentment once he slips between his blankets, mattress dipping beneath his weight. He looks at his phone to see a see-you-tomorrow message from Hongjoong with way too many emojis.

Another noise. More footsteps. Wooyoung’s heartbeat picks up as he burrows himself further under the covers. He’s too tired, too afraid to get up.

He succumbs to sleep.

  
  


(Mood: [ The Dancer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xXr3jpCn_HU) by Christopher Ferreira)

  
  


_Wooyoung._

It has been so long since he has dreamt.

He’s in the middle of a grassland, ferns and weeds and stems gently grazing his waist and wrists. Squishy soil beneath his bare feet, rich with life. The smell of smoke tickling Wooyoung’s nose. Grey sky bleeding into an orange sunset as it sinks and pulls the indigo across the skyline.

He closes his eyes and feels the soft breeze on his face, letting his arms fall back and tilting his face towards the sky. It is free here. No worries, no sadness. Only fading sunlight and the wind ruffling his hair.

 _Wooyoung._ It’s calling out for him, echoing into the zephyr.

He turns. A glint of black amongst the brush. His feet betray him, pulled closer by a magnetic force that beckons him forward.

 _No_.

A melody.

 _A melody._ No broken sounds. A coherent, clear, breathtaking melody.

_Nonononono–_

A man, clad in all black, sitting at a piano, the waltz flowing from his fingertips. It is strikingly beautiful, reminiscent of a lost beloved. The movement of his fingers is effortless, fluid.

Wooyoung inches forward, the music, the _captivating music_ , luring him in, coaxing him to get closer, a little closer. Color seems to stream from the notes, giving life to the scarlet sun that keeps submerging beneath the end of the land.

The man has given no indication that he knows Wooyoung is there. The way he performs is almost nostalgic, as if this song has given and taken so many things from him. He moves his body, swayed by emotion, arms flowing and head leaning back.

Wooyoung is absolutely mesmerized, enthralled. The man’s shaggy black hair flutters in the wind. His meticulous fingers connect to strong arms lined with muscles, attached to broad shoulders. Small waist, long legs. Feet busy at the pedals to capture the sounds and hold them still before they float away to the heavens.

The piece turns into the higher octaves, like faraway bells. The last arpeggio, E flat minor. A staggered final chord that is a woeful ending. The man stills, hands not leaving the keys and back still to Wooyoung.

“I’ve been waiting for you.”

A voice made of melted silver, soft, like velvet. A bit gravelly. Cool, calculated.

The man stands, and then he faces Wooyoung.

A million emotions well up in Wooyoung’s throat, that closes up and leaves him unable to make a sound. The man is a pastel caramel golden, ethereal: plush pink lips, perfect nose, wind-tumbled soft sable hair with a brilliant streak of ivory that covers…

Eyes. _Dark eyes, tired eyes, beautiful eyes, staring back at him. Somehow this feels even more intimate because the eyes_ know _him. They know his secrets and they seem to silently vow to carry them, absorbed into the glistening pools of despair that glitter with faraway supernovas and brilliant nebulas. He knows those eyes well. He’s lost in those eyes, like the stars waiting to be explored yet forgotten in the depths of the vast universe._

They are Wooyoung’s eyes from his nightmares. Obsidian, tilted up like a fox’s, a hint of mischief, of knowing. Old eyes, impossibly ancient.

He knows this man from somewhere, a small tickle in the back of his brain. Something in his heart sings, but he silences its voice before it can do any damage.

Wooyoung drops to his knees in the faded grass, so many things he wants to say stuck on his tongue. Why? How? What is happening?

“What is this place?” he breathes.

Something sad in the man’s eyes before they quickly turn to stone, guarded once again. “It is our Nowhere. It does not exist in your world.”

The man glides towards him, feet barely leaving indents in the stalks he crushes. Wooyoung cannot tear his eyes away. The wind picks up, whipping his hair around. Wooyoung feels like the gravity of the man’s eyes gets stronger, pulling him in, threatening to drown him.

He teeters over the edge. An avalanche of memories

_“Finalist Jung Wooyoung!” Yeosang’s smile, how familiar it was. Yeosang was his home. But Yeosang is gone now. Hongjoong’s kindness, his warmth. Seonghwa’s teeth bared in an intimidating cheshire grin._

_Wooyoung’s instrument, the joy it brought him. The thing he lived for. Gone, all gone._

_This is his savior. Save me. You're my savior._

_Save me!_

_Eyes, hidden away by the dark. Hands, ripping Wooyoung’s heart out of his chest._

Wooyoung blinks back to reality, and the man is standing right in front of him looking down at him with an unreadable expression.

“Oh, pretty Wooyoung...” The man’s hand comes up to Wooyoung’s face to brush his hair out of his eyes, cup his cheek. His hand is warm. Wooyoung leans into the touch. It is soft, so gentle, so fragile. “You’ve suffered _so, so much_.” The well overflows. Wooyoung’s bottom lip trembles, a fat tear rolling out of his eye. He has not allowed himself to cry since— _No_. The man’s thumb sweeps it away. “Tears, _human_ tears...how precious they are.”

The man sinks to his own knees, sitting back on his haunches so he is eye-level with Wooyoung. The scent of smoke is stained with bergamot and patchouli, a hint of cocoa. More tears, salty and hot, waterfall down Wooyoung’s cheeks. He sobs pitifully. The three years of numbness turned into three years of pain all hitting him at once like a train with no brakes. A flood of emotions: misery, grief, desolation, hopelessness, loneliness. He cries and he cannot stop. His head hangs, shameless, and he weeps. _Yeosang is gone, my hands, Yeosang, hands, painmakeitallstopstopstopstop—_

“I could,” the man whispers, tilting his head. His eyes are dark, so dark. Black holes where all light is vacuumed and has no hope of ever escaping again. “I could take away your pain.”

Wooyoung wipes his tears away with the back of his hands. “H-How?” he huffs, sniffling.

The man takes Wooyoung’s tear-stained, ruined hands in his _(Yeosang, who takes his hands into his own)_ , surveying the damaged skin, the ugly stripes of scars. The man ensnares Wooyoung’s eyes in his, gaze never wavering as he brings Wooyoung’s quaking hands up to his lips, kissing the knuckles. His lips are pillowy like white sand made docile by the crashing waves of the ocean. Wooyoung gawks as the skin knits itself back together properly, lines becoming smooth and even. He is amazed at how he can hold his hands still on his own, tears forgotten temporarily.

But only for a moment.

As soon as the man breaks the contact, the spell is broken. Wooyoung’s hands go back to the way they were. Shaky. Disfigured. The man’s tongue comes out to dart over his lips, tasting Wooyoung’s tears.

“Your sorrow is sweet,” the man says, eyes still heavy with melancholy. “But it can be yours, all over again.” The man doesn’t say it, but Wooyoung knows exactly what he means. He blinks slowly. “Think it over, pretty Wooyoung.”

His name. He knows his name. Wooyoung is out of thoughts, out of words, out of breath. But so many questions. “Who...Who are you?”

The man smirks, the left corner of his lips turning up, an eerie playfulness. His eyes glitter intelligently, heavy and filled to the brim with liquid coal that absorbs the dwindling molten sunlight.

_“I am your savior.”_

Wooyoung is awake with a shiver, white cotton sheets affixed to his body with perspiration. It’s still dark outside, the subdued yellow of the streetlamps shining through his window, the faded roar of middle-of-the-night traffic morphing into a symphony.

 _I am your savior._ A mantra, ringing in his ears. _Eyes._

He checks his phone. Too early. But he cannot sleep. He is afraid, he is obsessed. Why did he have a dream on the night that Hongjoong was so spooked about Seonghwa? Why did _he_ come back to haunt him? Wooyoung can only lie down and stare up at the ceiling for hours until it is time to get up for work. He studies his hands; they are still damaged.

When he walks in the door of the café, a bubbly Hongjoong is arranging freshly-baked pastries in the glass cases, happily humming a tune that Wooyoung recognizes as Debussy’s _Clair de Lune_. The universe must really be against him.

Hongjoong stands straight and stops dead when he sees Wooyoung attempting to tie his apron in the back. “You look tired. Did you sleep last night?” he asks incredulously.

“Some,” Wooyoung replies. His protected hands keep defying his will, clumsily messing up the bow he tries to make.

“Let me help you with that,” Hongjoong says, eyeing Wooyoung warily. “You sure you’re okay?”

Crap. Is Wooyoung that easy to read? “Y-Yeah,” he hesitates.

But that is a lie. He is not.

The whole day, Wooyoung cannot focus.

_Yeosang. Seonghwa. He is dangerous. Seonghwa. Eyes. Silver eyes. Black eyes._

_I am your savior_.

He looks out the window across the street.

It calls for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys! it's been so long since i wrote anything, so long that ateez wasn't even a thing when i wrote my last work before i posted it, but i am proud to say i've been an atiny since the kq fellaz days. seeing our boys grow as artists and as people really makes me happy because they deserve the universe and so much more.
> 
> i want to acknowledge an absolutely amazing ao3 author named [sunwisher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunwisher). her advice inspired me to get back into writing!!
> 
> i've got so many ideas for this fic, and thankfully my best friend who beta-reads is the only one keeping my head on straight. if you have any questions, please leave me a comment or you can connect with me on twitter [@starsandsunsan](https://twitter.com/starsandsunsan). unfortunately, i don't know when i will post chapter 2 of this work, but thank you for starting this journey with me!
> 
> p.s. imagine wooyoung's injured hands like dr. strange's hands LOL i'm sorry ok bye bye


	2. Agitato con Fuoco

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agitato con Fuoco (Agitated with Fire)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for:
> 
> \- graphic/violent imagery (including EXTREMELY VIVID descriptions of blood and injury)  
> \- depression  
> \- anxiety/panic attacks
> 
> please do not read this if you are sensitive to such topics.

The next month is a blur for Wooyoung.

He cannot sleep without fear of seeing the mysterious man in his dreams once again, so he never sleeps for very long. The bags under his eyes get darker and deeper. There is always a static in the back of his head, distracting him. Remembering the man’s words.

_I am your savior._

He combats the melodies in his head all day and all night. The simple thirds of the E-flat minor tonic chord waltz playing in the back of his mind, intruding on his thoughts, prodding his conscience. The old waltzes he had learned long ago always threaten to break the dam he has so carefully constructed in his mind.

He’s always looking over his shoulder, terrified that something is following him, something is watching him. There’s a lingering presence making him jittery and skittish, like something breathing down his neck at all times. He is always highly strung, poised to bolt at any moment. His hand tremors get worse; he can barely hold things still much less make orders all day long.

Unfortunately, Hongjoong perceives Wooyoung’s inability to concentrate and finally decides to do something about it.

They’re ending the day, Hongjoong waving goodbye and bidding a good night to one of his other employees, Choi Jongho. Hongjoong sits at one of the tables, head resting on one hand and going through customer reviews online with the other, while Wooyoung is drying freshly-washed dishes and trying so desperately to not smash expensive porcelain as he puts them away in their appropriate cabinets.

“Wooyoung,” Hongjoong speaks out.

Wooyoung could hit his head on the ceiling with how high he jumps in surprise. He very nearly drops the plate he’s holding onto, clinging to it tightly with both gloved hands. “Y-Yes?” he meekly responds.

“Come here,” Hongjoong commands, patting the space across from him at the table and putting his phone down in front of him. “I need to talk to you about something.” _Uh-oh._ Wooyoung gulps, gingerly setting his damp cloth and dish-in-a-death-grip down, walking around the counter to pull out the other chair and sit, stiff as a board, across from his boss.

“What is it?” Wooyoung finally finds the strength to ask, dread building in his stomach. His face feels white hot, armpits and forehead tingling with the beginnings of nervous sweat.

Hongjoong’s big brown eyes are inquisitive, eyebrows drawn together with worry. “I’ve noticed you’ve been off lately...What’s up with that? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine!” Wooyoung snaps, way too quickly. Realizing his mistake, he instantly bows his head apologetically and lowers his voice, hand coming up to nervously scratch at his neck, fix his hair. “I’m sorry, I meant that I’m fine, I’m okay.”

“Wooyoung,” Hongjoong starts kindly. “You’re obviously not fine. Is something bothering you?”

 _Think of an excuse!_ “It’s not important, really. I’m okay,” Wooyoung insists, but he can’t look Hongjoong in the face. He looks anywhere, everywhere but Hongjoong, his gaze bouncing nervously from his worn gloves (he should probably buy new ones), stains on the couch in the corner (he should probably scrub those), crumbs on the floor (he should probably sweep it). His eyes wander to the window, past Hongjoong, to the store across the street.

Seonghwa’s music store.

“Wooyoung.”

Wooyoung closes his eyes, leaning forward to cover his face with his hands, rub at his temple. “I’m sorry, Hongjoong. I’ll focus more and do better.”

Hongjoong’s voice is stern as he utters a sentence Wooyoung has never wanted to hear. “I think you need a break.”

Wooyoung stiffens, air punched out of his lungs. “W-What?”

Hongjoong sighs, fingers tapping on the table. “You need a break. For your sanity and mine. You’re not _here,_ Wooyoung. You’re taking orders and cleaning and working all day long but I can see it in your eyes. You’re a million miles away doing God-knows-what in your head.” Hongjoong winces briefly, concern once again gracing his petite fairy-like features. “Take a week off so you can rest a little.”

“No!” Wooyoung nearly shouts, shooting up in his chair in disbelief. “Please!” His voice cracks with desperation. “I need this job. I need to be here. Please don’t send me away. Please.” He feels disgusting. He feels pathetic, groveling like this to the one person who has ever had mercy on him. But he needs this job. Hell, he needs to pay his bills. But most of all, he needs a distraction, to not think of _him._ To not think of these nightmares and shadows and ghosts of what never was. " I-Please just...let me stay."

_Yeosang is gone._

Hongjoong pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly conflicted. “I don’t know what else to tell you, Wooyoung. I’m grateful for all the things you’ve done. You’re the best employee anybody could ask for, but as your friend, I need you to consider some well-deserved vacation time. It’s only a week!”

“Hongjoong, I–” Wooyoung cuts himself off because he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know how to say what he feels. He doesn’t want to take a week off. He doesn’t want Hongjoong to care. But he needs Hongjoong to understand why he needs this job. He needs Hongjoong to understand, to get a grip and finally let go. It couldn’t hurt to try, could it?

“I have something to tell you.” It comes out weakly, almost a whisper.

Hongjoong blinks, obviously surprised, pushing his glasses up to the bridge of his nose. “What is it?”

Wooyoung’s eyes drift to Seonghwa’s shop, a glow emanating from the shades drawn over the front window onto the street, occasionally illuminated by the headlights of passing cars. He can see figures moving, shadows bounding inside the shop, twisted into awful shapes. He shivers, remembering Seonghwa’s pointy teeth that could probably rip him apart. The ghastly feeling of being watched intensifies, phantom breaths down his neck.

He makes a decision.

“N-Not here,” Wooyoung stutters. “Would…” his words stop abruptly as he swallows thickly and thinks about the implications of what he is about to suggest. “W-Would my apartment be okay?” Almost as soon as the words leave his mouth, Wooyoung regrets saying them. But his job and his sanity are on the line here. Hongjoong’s eyes go wide. In all of three years, never has Wooyoung ever invited Hongjoong over before. “B-But only if you want to!”

Evidently caught off guard, Hongjoong stammers, “Y-Yeah sure, totally! If you’re comfortable, of course! I wouldn’t want to, um, intrude?”

It’s at that moment Hongjoong’s phone decides to slide off the table of its own accord, the screen making a painful _chink!_ noise as it makes contact with the floor. Hongjoong just stares in disappointment before muttering a quiet “Shit” and Wooyoung has to clamp a hand over his mouth to keep from nervously giggling at the absurdity of the situation. He must really be losing it.

Hongjoong doesn’t react to Wooyoung’s apartment the way Wooyoung thought he would, or, he doesn’t really react at all. He just takes it in quietly, not saying a word, respectfully taking off his shoes in the entryway and putting them neatly aside. “Um, you can sit,” Wooyoung mutters, feeling extremely awkward. He’s never had guests over before. Hongjoong settles gingerly into Wooyoung’s Ikea couch, his socked feet barely reaching the floor. “C-Can I get you anything?” he asks tentatively. Does Wooyoung even have food in his refrigerator? He doesn’t remember the last time he went out to buy groceries. Maybe it was last week. Or maybe the week before that. He’s such a mess.

“Water is fine,” Hongjoong says. Wooyoung’s shoulders sag. Thank God.

Unfortunately, Wooyoung’s hands have other ideas when he reaches up to retrieve a cup from the shelf. They’re shaking so badly and he can’t feel his fingers more than usual. The glass tumbles from his grasp, hitting the floor with a deafening crash and shattering into hundreds of infinitesimal pieces that Wooyoung knows he’ll have to sweep up and maybe slice his foot on a stray shard in a week or two. Wooyoung remains motionless for a split second before kneeling down on the floor and scrabbling to gather all of the fragments.

Wooyoung can hear Hongjoong scramble to his feet. “Wooyoung? Are you okay?”

“Yep!” Wooyoung replies. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” He fetches his mini broom and dustpan from a drawer and gets to cleaning. After a few minutes of fumbling around and trying to get a good grip on the handles, he manages to collect all of the scattered bits and discard them in the garbage.

After retrieving a new glass and holding his hand steady enough to fill it with liquid, he takes it to a mildly distraught Hongjoong, who accepts it cautiously with a look of suspicion. Hongjoong’s eyes go from Wooyoung’s face downwards, and they find something that makes him gasp, “Wooyoung, your hand.” Wooyoung blinks with confusion before bringing his hands up, stomach sinking at the sight that greets him.

He had tried to be careful earlier, but he had been too clumsy in his haste: one of the sharper edges had pierced through his gloves and nicked his palm. Blood bubbles up through the tear, soaking the fabric with a dark stain. Wooyoung clutches his injured hand, watching as the red-turned-burgundy pools from his broken skin, the wine-colored tendrils branching out against the cotton. He feels no pain, only a morbid combination of fascination and dread. His eyes do not see as it comes back to him.

_...crushing through flesh and bone to clench around his heart and tear it out. Warmth cascades down his back in rivulets..._

Wooyoung only reacts when Hongjoong puts his water aside and stands. “Wooyoung, we need to clean that.”

Wooyoung’s panic-ridden brain jumps to conclusions.

_We need to clean that. We have to take off your gloves._

_We have to see your hands._

Wooyoung leaps back as if Hongjoong’s words had burned him. In a way, they had. Hysteria rises in his throat. _Nonono–._ He can’t let Hongjoong see. He can’t let Hongjoong see his hands. His breathing and heart rate escalate, the blood draining from his face. The room’s temperature suddenly drops but rises, like his body can’t make up its mind about what it’s feeling. He can’t speak, stumbling backwards and cradling his hand to his abdomen. His back hits the wall and he feels trapped. Boxed in. His vision blurs. He sinks to the floor, chest heaving as he struggles for air. The ground is hard beneath him. He can’t breathe. He chokes on the air that gets stuck in his lungs and refuses to come out. He feels like he’s going to vomit. _He’s going to die._

He can’t even think coherent nor rational thoughts. It’s like he’s underwater, movements sluggish. _A spike of fear. Stomach capsizing with the weight of a million stones. Yeosang. Yeosang, who takes his hands into his own. He’s going to die._

_Just like Yeosang._

_Yeosang, who scares the nightmares away._

_Yeosang, who smiles at him through the mirror._

_Yeosang, who has the warmest embrace._

_Yeosang, who congratulates him under the ambient lighting of the SUV before it is smashed to smithereens._

He vaguely registers hands on his shoulders, gentle pressure, warmth of another’s skin seeping through his shirt. A shape moves in front of him but he can’t see, he can’t hear, he can’t speak. His throat burns. Is he crying? The shape is near to him, sitting in front of him. It shifts closer. Fire-engine crown.

_He’s going to die._

“–young. Wooyoung.” _Is that Yeosang calling him?_ “Wooyoung, please.” _But Yeosang is dead._

“Y-Yeosang?” Wooyoung asks, disoriented. _Yeosang is dead._ He starts to cry harder.

Hongjoong. It’s Hongjoong. “Wooyoung, I’m going to need you to tell me where your first aid is.” Wooyoung’s brain is addled. What does Hongjoong need a first aid kit for? Wooyoung doesn’t even know if he has one.

“K-Kitchen,” he heaves out. He hopes, at least. He doesn’t know. _He's going to die._

_Just like Yeosang._

Hongjoong moves in front of Wooyoung again, something in his hands. He’s going to hurt Wooyoung.

“Wooyoung.” Wooyoung can’t tell if Hongjoong’s mouth is moving or not. “I’m not going to hurt you. I want to help you. Can you let me do that?”

He’s going to look at his hands. He’s going to laugh at him. Wooyoung lets out a choked scream, uncontrollably bawling and curling in on himself. He can’t let Hongjoong touch him.

He whimpers, but the rational part of his brain takes over so he nods hesitantly, willing his outburst to subside as the earth-shattering gasps tear through his chest.

“I’m s-s-sorry,” Wooyoung wheezes. It’s hard to talk. He feels himself slowly beginning to come back to reality.

Hongjoong shakes his head. “No, I am sorry. I should not have asked you for anything.” There is an uncomfortable silence for a moment. Wooyoung realizes what Hongjoong needs to do, is waiting to ask. “May I?” Hongjoong questions. Wooyoung nods again, sharply, dubiously holding his arms out in front of him.

Hongjoong’s face pales as he carefully peels Wooyoung’s gloves off to uncover the ruined skin beneath. The cut in question isn’t deep, but Wooyoung knows what else the older man is staring at. “Sorry,” Wooyoung blurts. His voice is too loud, too shrill, too shaky. He wants to hide. His throat hurts.

Hongjoong’s eyes, warm and brown like hot chocolate melting off of s’mores on a summer night around a campfire, meet his. “You have nothing to be sorry for.” Hongjoong gets to work, using the tweezers from the kit to remove the offending object lodged in Wooyoung’s palm, taking the utmost care to dab the scrape gently with an alcohol swab. He holds Wooyoung’s hand like he is invaluable, wrapping it slowly with a cotton pad and over it clean dressings, tearing the long pieces from the rest of the roll and taping the end to stay. Wooyoung remains stock still. There’s nothing he can feel. No pain, only a faraway itch of irritation that’s lost in his sea of overthinking.

It comes out of nowhere. “Phone,” Wooyoung mumbles, voice cracking into a whisper. He sounds pitiful, like a child asking its parent for comfort after a nightmare.

Hongjoong looks up from putting everything back into its place in the box. “Hm?”

Wooyoung purses his lips until he knows they turn white, biting on the inside of his cheek. He’s not making sense. Is he sure he wants to do this? Fuck it. He doesn’t have anything to lose. His heartbeat surges in his eardrums. “C-Could I please have my phone?”

Hongjoong is obviously puzzled. Wooyoung knows he’s only added to the myriad of questions his boss must have. But Hongjoong retrieves Wooyoung's phone from the counter and hands it to him wordlessly, watching attentively as Wooyoung thumbs press keys into the search bar. It’s a gamble. Wooyoung doesn’t know what he’ll find, never bothering to delve into the depths of the internet and what the world knew of him _after._ The look of surprise on Hongjoong’s face is tell-tale enough when Wooyoung turns the screen toward him, averting his eyes.

What exactly does Wooyoung want from this? What’s he trying to prove?

_The first octaves._

_The uneven tempo of the winter storm._

_The swells and crests of waves, a ship overturned in the tempest._

_Yearning, heartbreak, gloom, all with a sliver of hope._

Wooyoung knows exactly what Hongjoong is watching, and he pulls his knees up to his chest so he feels protected. He’s filled with shame. What would Hongjoong think of him now? That he’s a coward? That he's broken? The minutes blend with the piece that streams from his phone speaker, and it's too loud for Wooyoung, who covers his ears with his hands, eyes shutting tightly. He doesn’t want to hear. He doesn’t want to remember. He can’t remember. Each and every measure, grace note, trill, chromatic scale. The night everything changed.

_Rolling waves of happiness and desperation._

_Memories set alight and tossed into the fire to burn._

_Yeosang is gone._

Hongjoong’s touch brings him back to the present, tapping on his knee. Wooyoung opens his eyes that are filled with tears, threatening to brim over.

“Oh, Wooyoung,” Hongjoong says tenderly, face crestfallen. “What happened?”

Wooyoung feels small, continuously shrinking. His voice is weak as he whispers, “There was...an accident.” Hongjoong nods slightly, urging him to go on. “We were nineteen. My best friend, he–” Wooyoung chokes. _He died._ _His angel. Yeosang’s frantic scream._ He doesn’t want to remember. “I–” _A crunch of metal. Pain._ He can’t get the words out. Before he knows it, he’s sobbing again, covering his face with his hands. He can’t do this. He’s too weak. It hurts too much. He can’t relive this. _I’d rather be dead._

“Shhh,” Hongjoong coos softly. “You don’t have to tell me. It’s okay.”

“I-I’m sorry,” Wooyoung blubbers, wiping his cheeks and runny nose with his sleeves. He hiccups. He must look so stupid right now. “I’m s-sorry.”

“No, no, no,” Hongjoong reassures kindly. “You have nothing to be sorry for. It’s okay.” He holds his arms open, and Wooyoung gladly relaxes into the hug. His cheek is squished up against Hongjoong’s chest, and he can hear the steady heartbeat of the older. “You’re okay, you're okay.”

_I could take away your pain._

Wooyoung is grateful for Hongjoong. Something reminds him of Yeosang, as much as it hurts for him to admit, to even think about. Their caring nature. Wooyoung chastises himself for even daring to think that thought, chiding himself for relating the two when all Hongjoong had done was see him cry wretchedly. But maybe Hongjoong is an angel. _Maybe Yeosang is an angel._

“Breathe,” Hongjoong says. “Do it with me, okay? Inhale…” Wooyoung inhales, shuddering, in sync with Hongjoong. “Now exhale.” Wooyoung exhales, stifling another bout of sobs. “I'm here, don't worry, I'm here. Shhh, you're okay.”

They stay like that for a while, on Wooyoung’s apartment floor, Hongjoong’s breathing leading Wooyoung’s breathing. Wooyoung’s eyes start to feel heavy. Hongjoong is warm. He feels himself slipping away, but he tries to furiously jolt himself awake. Hongjoong notices Wooyoung slumping, pulling away. “I think it’s time for you to rest, okay?”

Wooyoung blinks and rubs his eyes, line of sight bleary. “N-No.” His voice is raspy with exhaustion. He cannot allow himself to sleep. He’s afraid. “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” Hongjoong disputes. “You need it. Whatever’s bothering you, you need to make peace with it, hm? What happened is not your fault.”

Wooyoung makes a noise, but he’s so weary that he cannot formulate words to tell Hongjoong that that's not what he’s worried about. He cannot process nor acknowledge Hongjoong’s statements properly. His eyelids droop shut again. Maybe he does need to rest. He’s so tired. He’s so tired he cannot think. His head pounds, dull thuds in the middle of his skull. He groans as Hongjoong helps them both to their feet, shepherding Wooyoung to his bed. Wooyoung sits, head flopping forward, eyes closed. He can hear Hongjoong shuffle around, putting the first aid kit back, disposing of garbage, sweeping up anything Wooyoung missed.

He can hear Hongjoong filling a glass with water, placing it on Wooyoung’s nightstand. “Wooyoung?” Hongjoong says softly. “I’m gonna go now, alright? Just call or text if you need anything.”

Wooyoung hums. “Thank you,” he slurs, eyes still closed.

He hears Hongjoong slip his shoes on and close the door with a low “Goodnight, sleep well” and Wooyoung is so thoroughly drained.

When Wooyoung’s head hits the pillow, he is transported away to another place, another time.

  
It’s like an old television, the static, grainy picture resolution. He squints, trying to make out the scene before him.

It’s Yeosang.

Yeosang, his angel, his best friend. Whose hair is dark, large expressive eyes filled with spirited mischief, smile shining. Just like the last time Wooyoung ever saw him.

Wooyoung tries to call out, to say something, but his voice doesn’t work. Yeosang isn’t focused on him. Yeosang is focused on something else. He’s focused on…

Himself?

Another Wooyoung is there with Yeosang. His cheeks are fuller, his smile bright and untroubled. His hair is silvery-gray and luscious, not limp like it is now. _He looks alive._

Wooyoung looks on as Yeosang and other-Wooyoung laugh together. He can’t hear their conversation. He can only watch as the two of them giggle unabashedly. He watches as other-Wooyoung throws his head back with joy, a hand habitually coming up to cover his mouth as he cackles silently.

He looks so happy, Wooyoung thinks. When was the last time that he had felt happy? When was the last time he laughed?

He only feels a deep glumness now, a twinge of loss, of emptiness. He misses Yeosang. He misses laughing. He misses how things used to be and the fact that it was all in the past makes his heart ache worse. Wooyoung keeps observing the sight, wracking his brain hard to find the memory depicted before him.

He can’t find it.

_He doesn’t remember._

Whatever he is witness to now had not previously existed in his brain. He’s bewildered, lost his bearings. How can he not remember? What’s wrong with him?

The landscape changes, and Wooyoung is burning.

He’s on fire but feels no pain. The suffocating smell of cloying smoke, the terrain ablaze, turned green to red-orange with flame. The sky is dark, no stars, no moon. Wooyoung cannot move, feet rooted to the spot where he stands.

He sees himself again, but other-Wooyoung’s state is drastically different from the previous one. His garments are torn, the white stained with streaks of ash and embers burning little holes through. The cloth is ripped in various places. His skin is illuminated a charred orange. He’s not smiling; he looks overwrought, desperate. He’s sprinting through the burning grass and then Wooyoung realizes.

He recognizes this place.

This is...what did the man say? _Nowhere._

He’s been in Nowhere before? But no time to dwell on the question.

Other-Wooyoung is looking for something, Wooyoung surmises. His eyes are trained on the ground, head twisting madly with torment. His hands fist in his hair with exasperation, pulling on the gray strands. What’s he looking for?

Other-Wooyoung turns toward Wooyoung. Wooyoung holds his breath, hoping that other-Wooyoung cannot see him. Luckily, it doesn’t seem like he can. He takes this time to stare at himself. Other-Wooyoung is wounded, scratches peeking through his mangled clothing. His lip is split, jaw bruised, like he was punched. His eyes are feral, ferocious, scared. He clutches his side with one arm, the other at a funny angle. Wooyoung can see that he yells something, face contorting with upset, running with a noticeable limp towards Wooyoung.

Right through Wooyoung.

Wooyoung turns around to see other-Wooyoung throw himself to the ground, surrounded by the inferno. There’s a body among the dead skeletons of brush, other-Wooyoung obstructing Wooyoung’s view as he leans over it. Who is that?

And then Wooyoung can hear, like the fading in of tuning an old radio. The crackle of the flames as they lick at the meadow, lapping vigorously with eager tongues of destruction. The unhinged pleas of other-Wooyoung as he cries. Wooyoung jogs closer to get a better look.

_It’s the man from Nowhere._

Other-Wooyoung is hunched over him, tears pouring down his face and dripping onto the man’s face, smeared with grime. There’s a bloody gash on the man’s forehead, gold-turning-crimson gushing like paint coloring his snow-white hair, dripping down the chalky canvas of his skin. “No, no, no, no, no!” Other-Wooyoung weeps, pushing the man’s hair back, cradling his head and shoulders. The man is deathly pale, looking lifeless already. Wooyoung can see his eyes open narrowly, focus and unfocus. The man coughs feebly, flecks of blood staining his lips and chin.

There are twin gaping holes in his torso, horrifying lacerations exposing flesh, pulsing organs, bone, spurting ichor. A macabre rainbow mess of contusions all around. Skin twisted and charred.

Wooyoung is jerked forward, body and mind merging with other-Wooyoung. His knees and hands are sticky with blood that soaks into the soil beneath him. He’s looking down at the man, _his beloved,_ in his arms. The dying man, his dying beloved, in his arms as Nowhere is dying around them. He feels…

Love, unimaginably profound love, soul-crushing craving, desire, agony. _Agony._

_Love._

It is nothing compared to the pain of his physical wounds.

_Love._

He is terrified of losing him. He cannot lose him. Wooyoung is not in control of his body, he has no power over his actions as his fingers card through his beloved's sticky-carmine locks. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Hold on, please! Please! This is all my fault!” he hears himself cry hopelessly. His beloved's head moves back and forth, shaking faintly.

His hand comes up to brush Wooyoung’s face, scorched skin a rough texture against his own. He’s mouthing words, voice scarcely there, croaking the empty shells of splintered syllables that refuse to come off of his tongue, “S...Sorry..."

"No, don't be sorry. Please don't be sorry!" Wooyoung weeps, tears cascading down like diamond waterfalls. "Hold on for me, okay?" _I love you._ His hand strokes his beloved's cheek reverently, thumbing over his lips in an attempt to wipe the blood away. _"I'm_ sorry. Please, hold on. Hold on for me—I'll save you! Don't leave me.” _Don't leave me._

_I love you. Don't leave me._

_Don't leave me._

"...Wooyoung.” His beloved's hand falls, eyes falling shut, final breath of Wooyoung's name leaving his lips, body going slack. Wooyoung howls with grief, woe, misery. He looks up at the sky, cursing the heavens for the next millennia to come for ripping his beloved from him. For something as pure as love going punished in the most horrendous way. His head falls down, the corner of his eye catching something. He looks up slowly.

 _Seonghwa._ Raven hair, fierce eyebrows, incandescent leaden eyes. Standing a few meters away, hands clasped expectantly behind his back.

Wooyoung clutches the body closer to him, skin already growing cold even amidst the wildfire. He cannot believe the words that come out of his mouth. He has nothing left to lose, the only thing he lived for now gone. _I'll save you._ “Save him!” he begs. His voice breaks, vision muddled. “Please.” He can’t bring himself to hate the being standing over him, regardless of what he’s done, who he is.

Seonghwa tilts his head, expression indecipherable. The rich bass of his voice ignites a sliver of yearning in Wooyoung. “There will be repercussions.”

“I don’t care!” Wooyoung wails. And he truly does not. Nothing matters anymore. “Please, just, do something!” He stares down at the man in his arms, the deepest devotion within him. He would do anything for him. He would go to hell and back, heaven and back for him. His voice drops down, almost inaudible. “I don’t care. As long as he lives.”

“How... _noble_ of you.” Seonghwa’s eyes flash sanguine, dangerous. “But you know the Old Law. You must pay the price: a life for a life, a soul for a soul.”

Wooyoung stares, gaze defiantly meeting Seonghwa’s. He knows. “I’ll do anything.” He’ll do anything. He would die so his beloved would live.

“Let it be so,” Seonghwa declares with finality, a diabolic countenance of triumph. “We will meet again in another lifetime, little one.” His smile is like a wolf’s, ready to swallow Wooyoung whole.

Wooyoung goes numb, the weight of the body in his embrace, his world in his embrace, and all he can hear is the bellows of the fire around them as it consumes them. His only solace is that he would be okay, that they would be okay. _He will live._ He closes his eyes, lips pressed in a final kiss to the forehead of his beloved.

_I love you._

_Don't leave me._

It’s midday when Wooyoung’s thrust back to the present. His thoughts are groggy, mouth sour and feeling stuffed with cotton. It takes him a few minutes to think straight, unable to remember his dream, only a past that never was ringing silently in his ears.

_Don't leave me._

_Yeosang._

_Yeosang is gone._

Wooyoung sees a “Please rest this week and change your bandages :)” message from Hongjoong, sent early in the morning, when he finally picks up his phone. _Shoot._ Wooyoung claps his hand to his forehead. He didn’t mean to sleep this late, nor did he mean to miss work. Well, there’s nothing he can do about it now. He should probably obey Hongjoong after everything the older man had done for him. He switches the gauze wrap, determined to not stare too long at the thin line seeping pus across his palm.

The rest of the day passes by in a blur, which Wooyoung spends horizontally, scrolling through various social media platforms consuming heaps of endless meaningless content. In the evening he’s stirred by another blip of a notification.

 **Kim Hongjoong:** _Hydrate or die-drate :D_

Wooyoung sighs, stomach rumbling in response. It isn’t his boss’s job to take care of him, but he can’t help but crack a small smile at his thoughtfulness. Wooyoung is apprehensive at his ability to keep food down at the moment, but he prepares one of his last packs of instant noodles anyway and lets himself get lost in the salient taste of the sodium-filled soup wearing away at the roof of his mouth. He chews slowly, staring out of his window. It’s too silent, even his neighbors through the thin walls neglecting to make noise at the winding-down hour. He feels uneasy, even in the confines of his own home. He takes a long shower that night, letting the streams of water run down his rail-thin frame, swirl into the drain, mesmerized by the reflections of himself in the soap bubbles. The steam helps him breathe more easily but does not do anything to alleviate the heaviness that weights on his chest.

The first few days of Wooyoung’s mandatory vacation are bearable, but he soon finds that not working is incredibly boring. After a solid 72 hours of doing nothing productive, he’s long exhausted his Youtube recommended and Netflix watchlist, and there’s nothing more he’s obligated to finish or fill his brain with. He has nowhere to be, he has nobody to see. He contemplates asking Hongjoong to take him back early, but decides against it. His boss must be busy and doesn’t need another thing to worry about.

On the fourth day at sundown, he sits in front of his window instead, staring out into the distance, eyes half-closed, watching the hydrocarbon filter transform the sun into aqueous coral.

He’s never felt more lonely, and the lonely thoughts trickle into his brain, poking through the empty spaces and filling them up.

_It can be yours, all over again._

Wooyoung’s muscles tense up, spurred on by the intrusion, vacillating between swinging his legs around to stand up and staying put. He shouldn’t. He leans forward, forehead against the cool glass, squeezes his eyes shut, willing the poisonous idea away. It’s luring him, like a moth to a flame. Predator to prey.

_Think it over, pretty Wooyoung._

He shouldn’t. He can’t. Hongjoong told him not to.

_He has nothing left to lose._

His hands start to twitch by themselves, unprompted. He sits on them to stop the spasms, to no avail. The melodies resurface, little trills, and he has to concentrate to push them away.

He has to. He has to go. It's tempting him. It’s pulling him in.

_It calls for him._

Black jeans, black long sleeve. New pair of black gloves. He ties his shoes, all but slamming the door behind him as he races down his floor’s hallway. He takes the stairs two at a time, not caring if he lands sharply on his ankle at one point. He knows the way by heart. He walks it every day, there and back. It is only a mere ten-minute journey, but he’s sprinting. He pushes past people on the street, people on their way home from work, people with places to go, but they are unimportant places. The sky gets darker; he is running from the nightfall that’s hot on his heels.

_It calls for him._

He skids to a stop in front of his destination, out of breath.

Formidable as ever, his journey’s end is something eerily familiar. A fairy nondescript building with fairly nondescript curtained windows and a fairly nondescript door. The sign on the entrance indicating that the establishment is open is slightly crooked. Wooyoung frowns. It’s such a normal-looking place. What could possibly go wrong?

Wooyoung takes a breath, hands wobbling as he forces himself to turn the knob and lets himself in.

  
  


(Mood: [ Prelude in C-Sharp Minor](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wXQCPAR0EHo) by Sergei Rachmaninoff)

  
  


The hazy light that emits from an old chandelier on the ceiling is dim, making Wooyoung feel like he’s in a trance. The atmosphere is electric, the hairs on Wooyoung’s arms standing on end even through the layers of his clothing. There’s a faint drone in the stillness, the hum of energy. Of power. Of something monstrous lurking in the bowels of this store.

_It calls for him._

The front room is all sheet music library-style, from what he can see, many aisles with ledges floor to ceiling overflowing with documents. This place feels old, and Wooyoung feels like he’s stepped into a different era. One where time comes to a halt, the threads of fate hanging still in the air like spiderwebs. The smell of dust, musty parchment tickles his nose. Books of all sizes are piled messily on the shelves, in no specific order from what he can see. Titles in all languages: Korean, Russian, English, German, Italian.

He meekly meanders over to a stack, the yellow manuscripts peeking up at him, stained with tangled ink blots that he recognizes as…

Notes. Ledger lines. Chords.

His hands shake uncontrollably so he clutches the edge of his jacket to keep them from knocking anything over. His whole body shivers as his eyes come to rest on a certain, well-worn thick volume, discolored with sun-stains around the once-black edges of the cover. His eyes widen as his ears fill with faint whispers, faint echoes of phantoms that lie within the pages. Something, something treacherous, is in that book, and Wooyoung feels like the cat that is murdered by curiosity in the end.

_Take me._

He locks his rationality up and throws away the key, snatching the book up and pressing it to his chest, letting go of the stale air in his lungs. It is unexpectedly warm, heat spreading from where it comes into contact with his skin through his shirt. Like it’s alive. He’s like a dog waiting for a bone, waiting for the next order, the next direction.

_Find me._

A low buzz emits from the belly of the back rooms. Wooyoung’s feet drag themselves forward, lured by the promise of satisfaction. The threshold looms over him, and Wooyoung feels tiny. A hallway with many doors. They are probably music rooms, housing instruments for practice, he guesses. But the last door on the left is different from the rest. The soundlessness is deafening, and Wooyoung keeps peeking over his shoulder to see if there is anyone else, but he is alone.

He reaches the door, hand resting on the handle, the other latched onto the book like his life depends on it. It’s too late for him to turn back now. The door gives surprisingly easily, and Wooyoung steps in before it shuts once again, trapping him inside.

Candles of every size, hidden in the corners with wax dripping down their sides. Clementine phosphorescence, flickering and twirling like dainty ballerinas confined to a music box. Wooyoung’s silhouette ripples on the walls with every move he makes, mutating into something with a hungry maw.

A piano in the middle. Vintage, black, sleek. _Ancient._

Wooyoung is scared, there’s no denying that. But there’s a masochistic interest rising within him, something that wants to push, to see how far he can go.

He opens the fallboard to expose the smooth black and white, and then the music rack, placing the book vigilantly down. He casts another glance around the room, at the door, reluctantly sitting at the bench. He opens the book to a random page.

A Rachmaninoff Prelude. Chilling, demonic, harrowing. The most popular one, one Wooyoung has played before, one which he had played a long long time ago. Wooyoung had been skeptical when it was assigned to him.

_“I don’t know about it, Yeosang. It’s very...dark?”_

_“I like it, though! It’s full of emotion...that’s what makes it more meaningful.”_

Wooyoung’s hands wobble as he sets them on the ivory. He stretches his left hand, albeit with difficulty, for the octave. Slowly, he presses down, the sounds reverberating hauntingly through the stillness.

 _Fortissimo._ A. G-sharp. C-sharp.

But he cannot do more than the first two measures. The extensions hurt too badly. His wrists convulse, so he stops, hands poised above the keys, inhaling unevenly. He wants to play. He _needs_ to play. The ache of _longing_ is so painful that he can feel the damned prickle of teardrops moving swiftly down to his chin.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Wooyoung freezes. He would know that voice anywhere. He doesn’t turn his head to look.

_I can take away your pain._

He screws his eyes shut, afraid to look. _This isn’t real, this isn’t real, this isn’t real thisisn’treal! Wake up, Wooyoung!_

“Do you know the story that inspired it?” Wooyoung wishes he would wake up from this nightmare. The universe should have had its fill of making him suffer long ago. Wooyoung shifts his head, ever so slightly. _No._

“They say he had a dream."

The words are unrelenting, almost musical in their manner.

"First, the scene opens, the stage is set..." Eloquent. "It is dark, he is cold, he is lonely..."

"But he sees a light in the distance! So he walks toward it, slowly at first." Dulcet. _"Lento."_

"The light is barely there, but it is still a beacon of hope. Very quietly. _Pianissimo.”_ Languid.

A pause, and Wooyoung can hear him step closer. The candlelight is dwindling; he can see it from behind his eyelids.

“He picks up his pace, walking quickly, jogging. Until he runs. _Agitato!_ He runs, and runs, and runs, and runs. _Crescendo!_ Run, silly little rabbit, run!”

A menacing chuckle. “He sprints until he runs out of breath. _Diminuendo."_ Wooyoung is out of breath.

“And when he cannot run anymore, when his legs stop working, when he finally gives up, the light gets closer...he gets closer...a shape. He tries to see what it is with all his might but he cannot. As he gets closer, and closer, and closer…” With each word, Wooyoung can hear the man draw nearer.

And nearer.

“Until the form is clear to him. What is it? It is a coffin. _Fortissimo._ And so he is spurred on, his struggle renewed. _Run, silly little rabbit, run!_ He gets closer, and closer, and closer…”

The man is standing right beside Wooyoung now. Wooyoung can catch the slight fragrance of cocoa, citrus, something sweet but earthy. Seductive. He forces himself to keep his eyes closed and fight his instinct to lean forward, to capture more of the scent, envelop himself in it.

“He comes to the edge, places his hands on the smooth surface. His heart beats so surely in his chest, his lungs full of air now that he has reached his destination. His destination…” Wooyoung feels feather-light fingers on his chin, turning his head and tilting it upwards. Wooyoung turns his body involuntarily as well, so now all of him is facing the intruder, who still keeps his skin on Wooyoung’s.

The man’s intonations drop down to a crouch. “Everything he has worked for, it comes down to this final moment. A moment of suspense. _Subito fortissississimo._ He opens the lid, opens and opens and opens. Open!” Wooyoung’s eyes peel open, half-lidded, hypnotized.

Deep space. Neverending galaxies. Black holes.

The man seizes Wooyoung’s stare, unwavering. “Do you know what he sees inside?” Wooyoung does not.

 _“_ He sees _himself_ inside _..._ then the world is on fire and he watches it burn. _Pi_ _anissimo.”_

Wooyoung lets out a whimper. He is at the mercy of this... _being._ The one that torments him in his dreams, lurks in the umbrage of his every thought, his every move. He is like a drug, an addiction. But Wooyoung does not know why.

“Precious Wooyoung,” the man continues. _"You_ will set the world on fire and watch it burn.” Wooyoung does not know what this means. The man’s eyes are burnt sienna, a scintillating sepia with no backscattering of the firelight. The glow comes from within, an internal power source. Power.

“Who are you,” Wooyoung gasps. He knows he’s asked this question before, the scorching interest almost unbearable. He cannot withstand it anymore. “What are you?”

The man is silent, motionless for a moment. He takes Wooyoung’s hands, facing upwards, his touch making Wooyoung’s insides go hot and cold. He slips off Wooyoung’s gloves, lips pressed thinly. He unwraps the swathes on Wooyoung’s glass-sliced skin ever so delicately.

“I am the mountain,” the man says, voice low and mystifying.

“I am eternity.” The man steadily traces a circle on Wooyoung’s palm around the wound.

“I am an immortal of the abyss.” Wooyoung watches as the skin knits itself back together, the abrasion smoothing over to leave no trace of ever existing.

 _“San._ I am San.”

_Mountain. Eternity. Immortal._

_San. San. San._

All of Wooyoung’s life’s enigmas are no more, his nightmares are solved.

_San._

But there are too many questions left unanswered.

_Save me!_

_Don't leave m-_

Wooyoung finds his voice, struggling to his feet so he is eye to eye with _San._ “Please.” What is he begging for? Oxygen can’t find his airways. “Y-You said you could. Take it away, I mean.” _Take my pain away._ He has never been more unsure yet sure in his life. His heart dares to soar.

_Hold on for me._

San tilts his head, eyes coruscating brilliantly. “I did, and I can. Tell me, _Wooyoung,_ what is your deepest desire?” His eyes are like the fire that Prometheus dared take to the mortals on Earth, then punished by Zeus for an eternity.

Wooyoung knows. But he knows there is something wrong. He can feel it singing in the marrow of his bones, pleading for him to leave, to never come back.

It’s as if San can hear Wooyoung’s thoughts, divided and doubtful. “Being human is not fulfilling, I see. _Life_ is not enough. All the deeds you could have achieved during your tiny amount of years in this world are limited by your body that perished three years ago.” Wooyoung flinches. “You’re not satisfied, and you never will be. _I. Know. You.”_ Each word has a vicious emphasis, and Wooyoung hates how true they are.

“You wanted something, and you never got it before the opportunity was taken away from you. You were left _empty,_ no? Disappointed, _broken.”_

Wooyoung is puzzled at how someone is saying what he has failed to say all of his life. He cannot form cogent sounds, phrases, sentences. He has forgotten how to speak. There is nothing in this moment except for the two of them, the burning wicks an obscure reminder of a vision Wooyoung knows he’s seen before. “How would you know…”

San leans down, Wooyoung instinctively shies away. His vocal cords vibrate, mellifluous tones. “You remember that night, don’t you?”

Wooyoung plunges into his memories, taking a deep dive, pulled under by the auburn-tinted obsidian of San’s eyes.

_He takes a deep breath, steeling his nerves and gaining his composure, swiveling his head to marvel at the full house before him. His eyes sweep the front rows of the spectators, hundreds of eyes fixed on him, attentive._

_There is one pair in the front row, his train of thought stolen away as he zeroes in on a singular person._

_San, in an elegant black suit, legs crossed, brilliant white streak of hair dazzling against the rest of the black. There’s a Stygian gemstone under his eye, a nice addition to the rest of his outfit. A playful smile._

Wooyoung’s breath hitches. Candles fizzle out, flames sputtering like his rollercoaster of emotions. San’s eyes are still fervent, blazing, feverish bronze, a gleam emitting from deep within.

_He whimpers. Everything is spinning. He can make out the vague silhouette of a halo of dark hair. Yeosang? “Y-“ he tries to say, but his tongue is too big for his mouth. He is shushed in reply, hand stroking his hair gently. “M-my—“ His head feels like it’s about to split open. He can see the halo lean down closer to where he’s lying. He thinks he can hear his name._

_His perception focuses to see that it is not Yeosang that is hovering over him._

_It is San. San whose fingers are combing through his hair. San who is murmuring words of reassurance in his ears. San whose visage is filled with smugness but a hint of unease and determination._

“You…You were there.” San inclines his head in the shade of a nod. _Why didn’t you save me?_

Wooyoung doesn’t want to cry. He’s done enough crying in the past month.

San seems to feel the pangs in Wooyoung’s soul as it cries out. He blinks slowly. “I want you to break the limits of your mortality. Some choose wealth...fame...beauty...but that is not you. You are different. So what would please you, precious Wooyoung? What do you _dream_ of?”

It’s so easy for Wooyoung to think of, but the words are suspended on the tip of his tongue. He wants to play. He wants to perform. He wants to see Yeosang. He wants to truly _live._ He wants…

But there is a logical part of Wooyoung that snarls like a wild animal against its chains. He stands, legs wobbly, and turns away because he cannot bear to look upon San anymore, upon the harsh copper-and-coal of his eyes. He stares at the piano before him, a provocative taunt. A thought breaks the surface. “I-I can’t–This is...too good. Is it real?” Wooyoung’s resolve falters. Prickle of doubt to subtract from how much he craves. “What do I have to do?”

“Oh, precious Wooyoung,” the purr comes from right behind him. Icy hands skim Wooyoung’s waist, wordlessly asking permission, holding him gently, back flat against the chest behind him. He trembles. A mouth gracing the shell of his ear, sending shivers up his spine. Nobody has ever been this close to him, except for in his dreams years ago. “Yield your soul to me, and I will give you _everything_ _..."_

Wooyoung’s head falls back and he wills himself to not collapse like a house of cards. “I–I can’t…” Everything else is a million miles away: Hongjoong, Seonghwa, the café. No memories, no hand tremors. Only San, who wraps his arms around Wooyoung in a secure hold that could almost be described as protective. Wooyoung’s skin sears in every place they are touching. He is hyper-sensitive, hyper-aware that the chest that he’s supported against has no heartbeat pulsing within it.

The thought dissipates. He is only Wooyoung. And there is only San.

San, who has appeared in his dreams for forever.

San, who is his savior.

“You’re a slave, a prisoner, precious Wooyoung...shackled by your reason. Let it all go. The others did.”

Wooyoung goes rigid, clutching onto San’s strong forearms, blood turning to ice. He knows exactly what San is talking about. The greatest pianists and composers of all time, all of which met the most untimely deaths, lives cut unfairly short by sickness, suicide, accidents.

San hums, exhale hovering over the nape of Wooyoung’s neck. “I breathed life into all of the melodies of pain and suffering, sorrow and mourning, to be named the most beautiful of them all and they struggled against me... _Devil’s pianists,_ they were called…” The arms around Wooyoung’s middle tighten.

He can feel San shift behind him. “They gave themselves to me. And I made them _mine.”_

San mouths against Wooyoung’s exposed skin. “You are _special_ to me. Very special to me. I have waited _so long...”_ Alarm bells blare in Wooyoung’s head. A bad feeling that refuses to go away, no matter how much he shoves it down and wills it to disappear. He is at war with himself, losing and gaining. He’s spilling his own blood to taint the moral ground on which he walks, on which is slowly crumbling under his weight. But he is not a child anymore. He is no longer the sniveling boy who lost his whole life in an accident and forgot how to function, fleeing from the past of someone he could not bear to be anymore. “You will be my _champion,_ precious Wooyoung."

A heartbeat. A wish.

"Do we have a deal?”

_Save me._

_Save me!_

He takes the hand outstretched to him and lets it pull him up out of the light into the void.

And Wooyoung hopes that he doesn’t regret it.

He can hear the smirk on San’s rosy lips, lips he’s focused on so many times before in a lifetime that doesn’t belong to him. “Very good, my precious Wooyoung.” Wooyoung keens quietly at the praise, winded. “You will not _regret_ this. Oh, no, no, no. I will make sure of it.” His words are devilish, frisky, and Wooyoung can hear the amusement in them.

A hand on his back, prodding between his shoulder blades. Wooyoung doesn’t fight as fingers, claws, sink into his flesh, through his flesh. He makes no sound, accepting his fate.

The stars align. His dream, nightmare, vision has come true, as was foretold. His soul is no longer his, marked to be claimed and devoured by a creature of the dark.

Wooyoung’s soul is on fire, and he lets it burn.

Wooyoung’s world is on fire, and he lets it burn.

“I will give you _everything_ and _so much more_ …” Kisses as soft as starlight down the side of his neck, across his collarbone. Patchouli, bergamot, cocoa. _Purpose._ Wooyoung turns his head, leaning against the sturdy shoulder, surrendering himself. The white flag has been raised. His eyes flutter shut, barely daring to move. A painstaking hand caressing his cheek. Breaths mingle with his, lips almost on his. Flickering, diminishing, vanishing, dying flame to feed the roaring fire in Wooyoung instead.

The last candle blinks out, leaving them in total darkness.

“I will make you _God.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back! i'm sorry for the wait, but i've been preparing my university applications! i'm so drained and tired, but ateez really make my day so it's worth it. also, happy birthday to atiny!
> 
> once again, thank you to ray [@sunwisher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunwisher) and rebe [@sunflowerwoo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerwoo) for your support because i could not have had better cheerleaders! i love you both~ <3
> 
> again, i do not know when i will update this work, but it will be sometime in 2021. hopefully i'll see you! until then, please enjoy and don't forget to leave a comment bc reading comments and replying to them make my day, honestly. also follow me on twitter if you want to talk more! [@starsandsunsan](https://twitter.com/starsandsunsan)
> 
> goodbye and please stay healthy and safe~

**Author's Note:**

> don't hesitate to comment and give me feedback! i'm a baby twitter user so you can get my attention on there as well [@starsandsunsan](https://twitter.com/starsandsunsan). please please please stay safe and healthy >.<
> 
> i reply to all comments!


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